Chapter Text
POPMAIL DAILY NEWS
@popmailnews
#RUMIRA is making waves–and gaining fans–after the two
Korean popstars were caught getting intimate during a gym
date:
Article link in bio →
8:39am · 7/17/2025 · 2.1m views
>>> 🌼💕Katieee Chu💕🌼
@katiekatkpop
AHHHHHH OMG MY HEART IS SO HAPPY ITS
OFFICIAL GUYS 🚨🚨🚨
8:50 am · 7/17/2025 · 1.2k views
>>> ur mom
@kkingkkolesskkingdomm
Damn ig @huntrxluvrrr505 was onto something
9:27am · 7/17/2025 · 75k views
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PinkNews
@PinkNews
A new queer power couple? And in K-pop? Huntr/x fans
and casual listeners alike react to the rumored news that
members #Rumi and #Mira are romantically involved.
www.pinknews.com/205883/Rumi-Mira-Kpop-Queer
8:39am · 7/17/2025 · 945k views
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Kim Jinwoo
@KimJinwooJournalism
Ex-Stratego Member RYAN on Huntr/x #Rumi and #Mira’s
relationship:
“It’s really powerful to see two idols–and at their
level of renown–living their truth. The Kpop system is so
hard for queer people like us. These two are going to break
boundaries.”
8:39am · 7/17/2025 · 442k views
The company headquarters building was cold. In a figurative sense because the building was spartan, furnished just enough to look modern but not nearly enough to feel comfortable. The desk workers were perfectly professional when spoken to, but not friendly, eyes blank and directing any visitors with a dry, bored drawl. There was something distinctly unwelcoming about the space–all harsh edges, abstract modern light fixtures that Rumi pretended to find artistic, and sterile white stone. The specific decor changed over time, but the chill was a dependable constant. Rumi remembered hiding behind Celine’s leg as a small child, avoiding eye contact with trainees, idols, executives, and employees alike. She was so timid, then. She still was, in some ways, wishing for a leg to hide behind as she walked toward the most embarrassing emergency meeting of her life.
In a more literal sense, the air conditioning was always turned on at full blast.
Rumi felt a chill race down her spine the instant she stepped foot through the revolving door, and Zoey shivered dramatically beside her, rubbing her bare arms.
“I always forget to bring an extra layer,” she groaned.
Rumi watched from the corner of her eye as Mira surveyed the lobby. Mira was clothed in a too-big, baby pink sweater and had her glasses on. She had opted for more natural makeup, and her hair was slightly windblown. Cute. Wait what? Stop that, Rumi. The look on Mira’s face was one that Rumi understood to be apprehension–her eyebrow was furrowed, and the pink-haired girl puffed out her cheeks, blowing a rebellious strand of hair out of her face.
At least I’m not the only one dreading this.
Rumi had been restless the night before, running through scenario after scenario of how this meeting might go. Would the company be mad at her? Mad at Mira? Would they, too, be suspicious of their relationship?
What are they going to make us do about it?
A sharp, stabbing pain tore at Rumi’s chest. In her mind, the most likely outcome of this meeting would be a forced hiatus–a no contact clause written into a loophole-proof contract, dragging Rumi away from the only two people in the world who had ever truly known her. In the frigid lobby, her hands itched to reach for Mira and Zoey, but she knew that even the most innocent of touches would probably be detrimental to her case. Rumi’s heart screamed in protest, yearning to be close and to touch and to hold on as tight as she could, to breathe them in and imbibe the sound of their voices so that she would have some memory to depend on if she was sentenced to exile.
Maybe exile was a strong word. It would probably be more like two months off.
For once in her life, Rumi felt a sweeping anger toward their fans. While their theorizing was, in most cases, well-intentioned, it was having very real and very negative impacts on the group. If only the fans realized that shipping them together would only serve to drive them further apart.
“You okay?” A puff of breath tickled the shell of Rumi’s ear. Mira’s deep voice was mellifluous and, if Rumi was being really honest with herself, kind of alluring, causing another wave of goosebumps to spread across the leader’s body.
A faint smile played at the edge of Rumi’s lips. Even though Mira was on the chopping block too, she still made a point to take care of Rumi.
“Yeah, yeah! I’m fine,” Rumi said, almost subconsciously. The reassurance was already out of her mouth by the time she was able to judge its veracity. She felt a light pressure on her lower back and turned to see Zoey, stabilizing her, concern evident in her dark eyes.
“They can’t make us do anything.” That was Mira.
They absolutely could.
“Totally. We just have to go in there, explain everything, and show them who’s really boss!” Zoey chirped.
It was a nice sentiment, but Rumi was absolutely not the boss in this situation.
“Okay,” Rumi sighed, tucking away a couple flyaway hairs back into her braid. “Let’s just get this over with.” She stepped into the elevator, clicked the 8th floor, and spammed the door close button. The purple-haired girl noticed a slight green glint in the reflective metal walls. Great, she was glowing again. Just fabulous timing.
When the elevator doors dinged, Rumi didn’t think–she moved. It was a good thing her feet knew where to take her to, and that Zoey was still guiding her forward from behind, because Rumi would have simply stood otherwise, petrified. Faintly, Rumi was aware of a slight tremor in her hands. Mira clearly noticed as well, slotting her fingers between Rumi’s own and tracing gentle circles with her thumb. The sensation was grounding.
Company meetings weren’t usually this scary. Rumi was always in total control. The ever graceful, ever diligent Huntr/x leader–it was a label she took pride in and sought to maintain. She hadn’t even shaken this badly when she went in to bat for Zoey after the maknae had accidentally leaked a portion of their third comeback on her Instagram account.
That was actually scary. These are just gay rumors. Totally not scary. It’s not even true, so it’s not like you and Mira will get in trouble.
Rumi didn’t feel the usual burst of confidence that came from positive self-talk. She couldn’t bring herself to believe the words.
The three members approached the glass doors of the conference room. Mira squeezed Rumi’s hand once before releasing it. Zoey, too, removed her fingers from their resting point on Rumi’s waist. It was cold again. She was incomplete. Alone.
“Come on,” Mira urged, softly. The dancer pushed open the doors with a barely perceptible grunt.
Chairman Hwang, the owner and president of Huntr/x’s company, was perched at the head of a long mahogany conference table, his hands folded neatly in front of him. He was a middle aged man; fifties, if Rumi had to guess. Age had barely touched Chairman Hwang, though, throughout her entire life crossing paths with him. His hair was still thick and lush, skin only gently carved with wrinkles, and his posture denoted a kind of poise that was unachievable for most. He was the Sunlight Sisters’ first manager way back in the day, and he had garnered a reputation for being supremely organized, tactical, and detail-oriented. A shining example of the old “our faults and fears must never be seen” mantra. The chairman’s swivel chair was larger than the rest—thronelike—a projection of his power.
To the left of him sat a young woman. Rumi would be hard-pressed to describe her; she had no particularly interesting features or mannerisms. Her head was partially obscured by a laptop, which she was clacking away on. Of course, Rumi realized. Another new, perfect assistant.
Next to the assistant was Bobby, who shot the girls a tentative smile when he caught sight of them. He was more dressed up than usual. Bobby’s usual flashy tracksuits had been replaced with a blazer and slacks. (However, Rumi would note, he still had on a slightly rumpled white tee underneath).
A smattering of other recognizable figures, ranging from Huntr/x’s PR chief to their creative director, were seated at other points around the conference table. Their faces ranged between distressed, wired, bored, and tired.
Then, on the chairman’s right—
Shining black hair, streaked with grey. Perfect waves, not a hair out of place. A tight set jaw. Downcast eyes that either found something about the conference table very interesting or, more likely, were avoiding Rumi.
Celine.
Rumi mentally smacked her head. Of course, as Huntr/x’s mentor and the literal VP of their company, Celine would make an appearance. She felt her pulse speed up at the sight of the older woman.
Rumi hadn’t expected to see her guardian ever again if she had the choice, and she certainly hadn’t anticipated their first reunion to be damage control for Rumi’s alleged lesbian thirsting. For the second time in only a brief period, she wished Celine would take mercy on her poor soul and put her out of her misery. (That was a joke, for legal reasons. And because Zoey and Mira had been aghast after Rumi recounted, through tears and violent hiccups, her encounter with Celine on the night of the idol awards).
“Please take a seat, girls.” Chairman Hwang, voice silky. Despite his buttoned-up attitude, the man could be exceptionally charismatic and disarming.
Rumi took the seat opposite him; Mira and Zoey flanked her on either side.
Hwang continued: “Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with us today. I’m sure you understand why we have to have this conversation.” He cocked an eyebrow. Rumi couldn’t discern if the look was fond or judgmental. Knowing the chairman, it was probably both.
Mira cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.”
Rumi tilted her head to examine the girl. Her face was schooled into a true neutral stare. It was surprising, to some fans, how quick the visual was to show proper respect, a sharp contrast with her brash and rebellious persona. Mira was always perfectly mannered–habit, in part, from her childhood growing up in a very wealthy, deeply conservative family. She was blunt, sure, and a bit abrasive. But never, never disrespectful. Rumi saw the other half, too, which was that Mira prided herself in maintaining grace. Chivalry, even. She had learned to carry herself with a careful balance of confidence and deference that allowed her to endear both those who wanted a rebel and those who wanted an idol. When it came to Huntr/x’s company and superiors, that skill of deference came in handy.
With a start, Rumi realized that everybody in the room was waiting on her affirmation.
“Ah, yes. I understand.”
Chairman Hwang leaned forward in his chair, casting his gaze off to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view wasn’t quite as good as Huntr/x’s penthouse, but Seoul’s skyline was still visible. “I’m not sure you do, though.”
Bobby flinched a little bit.
“Are you fully cognizant of the sheer scale of this, ahem, dilemma? The full consequences of your actions?”
Mira started to speak, but Hwang silenced her with a swift, dark look.
“I don’t know what your true feelings are towards each other. Frankly, I don’t care in the slightest. What I do know is what it looks like: to the fans, to the public,” Chairman Hwang let out a wry bark. “Even to me.”
Rumi stared at her lap, noticing a pink glow emanating from the patterns on her thighs–barely visible through the fabric of her pants. Why does everyone believe this? Her and Mira. Mira and her. It couldn’t just be the photo. Sure, the photo did make their moment in the gym look somewhat intimate, but that alone wouldn’t convince fans, the media–Zoey, too, at one point–that Rumi and Mira were an item. Was there something in the way Rumi looked at Mira? The way Rumi, especially since the idol awards, craved the dancer’s physical affection? Was it really possible that there was someth–
No. Stop.
A pit formed deep inside Rumi’s stomach. This was her fault–letting the fans psych herself out about her relationship with Mira had backfired dramatically. Even the head of their company suspected romantic tension between them. It’s utterly ridiculous, thought Rumi. And I can’t believe Chairman Hwang doesn’t see through the fan conspiracies. Mira and Rumi were completely platonic.
The memory of Mira from the gym leapt unbidden to her mind. Hands on her waist, her hips; warm breath on her neck, in her ear; heart pounding, stuttering uncontrollably. A part of Rumi, one that she desperately wanted to ignore, craved to feel it again.
“We’ve decided to take a new course of action.”
Rumi froze at the sound of Celine’s voice. There was something stilted and awkward about her cadence, like she had rehearsed the line.
Zoey tilted her head to the side. When Rumi turned to look at the younger girl, she was taken aback by the sheer ferocity in Zoey’s glare.
“What might that be, Celine?” Zoey gritted the statement through her teeth. It was clearly taking her significant restraint to stay civil.
Celine opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked at Mira, who was pretending to be disinterested but was bouncing her knee nervously under the table, and then at Rumi, with something akin to grief. Celine’s eyes were dark, though, almost black–similar to Zoey’s, but less emotive. Rumi couldn’t accurately read what the woman was thinking.
“Unfortunately, the company feels as though we don’t have a choice at this point except to move to option C.”
Option C? Which one was that again?
Beside her, Rumi noticed the color drain completely from Mira’s face. Zoey, who had been fidgeting nervously with a hair tie, froze.
“Wait,” Rumi said, quirking a brow. “What does that mean again, exactly?”
Mira brushed a silky strand of pink hair from her face, letting out a long exhale. “It means that it’s time for us to start dating, babygirl.”
“WHAT?” The screech that came out of Rumi’s mouth was ungodly.
Mira rolled her eyes. “For PR, obviously. No need to act so excited.”
There were, for once, zero thoughts in Rumi’s mind. The shock of the company’s choice, which had subverted all of her expectations for this meeting, had disrupted her capacity to function. When she recovered, Rumi was hit with two emotions. The first, profound gratitude. They weren’t taking her girls away from her. The second was harder to name. It felt similar to embarrassment–a heat rose in her cheeks, and she could feel her pulse pounding in her neck.
Rumi mustered up all of the bravery she had left and used it to lock eyes with Celine. “Are you serious?”
Celine looked sufficiently embarrassed herself. She sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “Rumi. Mira. You two must date each other.”
The whole room came to a standstill for one brief, almost peaceful moment. Then came the shouting. Everybody was clamoring over each other, and Rumi could only make out fragments of the debate.
First Zoey: “I beg your pardon?! They have to do WHAT now?”
Then Bobby: “Celine! That is not how we agreed to frame this! You can’t make it seem mandatory!”
Their PR chief: “Zoey, Mira, Rumi, it’s the only way to get through this smoothly.”
And then Celine again: “Believe me, I am just as against it as you are! This was absolutely not my idea. Unfortunately, it’s our only feasible course of action, thanks to your getting frisky in a gym.”
“We were not getting frisky!” Mira interjected, holding her hands up to silence the room. Like magic, the shouting quieted. With the light reflecting off of her chiseled face, her eyes fierce, the visual looked majestic. “We were just, um, comparing ab routines. It’s totally normal sh-stuff for people who work out. But regardless, why are you making it so clear that you’re against the idea, Celine, huh? Are you homophobic?” The final phrase was nearly a snarl.
Celine recoiled. “I’m not homophobic!”
Two loud slaps resounded throughout the conference room. Chairman Hwang scowled from his position at the head of the table.
“Let’s all calm ourselves, please. And no ad-hominems. Yes, we are arranging to stage a relationship between the two of you. It will last for several months and then we will stage a breakup–amicable, of course. You two will realize that you are better off as friends.” The chairman leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers together.
A sense of numbness seeped into Rumi’s bones. A helplessness. We’re going to…date? The thought sent jolts of nervousness down her body, which was strange. Mira was one of her best friends. Rumi trusted the girl with her life. She wouldn’t need to feel nervous about faking a relationship, necessarily.
“But,” Rumi stuttered over her words, “I figured you were going to take them away from me.” The sentence came out weak, broken, barely audible.
The chairman crossed his arms and shook his head. “That would never work. You are too popular to go on a long hiatus, and it would only inflame the rumors.”
Naturally, his logic was derived not from empathy but from a pure business standpoint.
Hwang added on, “Plus, although we will lose a contingency of your fanbase, I’ll admit there is potential for this to be very, very good for us. We just have to be in total control of the narrative.”
More like total control of my life. Rumi felt her arms and legs turn gelatinous beneath her. She was still in a state of pure astonishment. Date. Mira. Date. Mira. Holy shit. Mira. Mira. Mira. Rumi was hyperaware of Mira at her side; part of her wanted to look over and examine the other girl’s reaction, but she was scared of what she might find.
“What if they don’t want to do it?” A small voice spoke up from Rumi’s left. Zoey.
Celine shook her head. “This is the best option. For us, and for you three. I don’t think you’d be happy to hear the others.”
Mira stood up from her chair and crossed her arms over her sweater. She was tall, towering over all the other figures in the room. Every movement of her body–even the way she was perceptively working to steady her breathing–seemed intentional and graceful somehow. “Can we have a moment, privately?”
Chairman Hwang nodded. “Of course. We will leave you two.” He beckoned with two fingers for everybody to rise.
“Us three.” Mira reached across Rumi to grab onto Zoey’s arm. The maknae tensed, almost imperceptibly, at the contact. Odd. Rumi didn’t linger on the idea too long, however, because Mira’s arm was right in front of her, grazing her ribcage, and her hair was right next to Rumi’s face, flooding her senses with the smell of Mira’s perfume. It was a cologne, actually, Rumi had learned. Mira liked the slightly lower concentration of smell, comparatively, and she elected for a woodsy, sweet fragrance that was still light and appealing. All that the purple-haired leader wanted in that moment was to lean forward a mere inch and nuzzle her face into the smell.
Rumi…that’s not…Rumi stepped back and rocked her head a little, as if shaking it would get rid of these peculiar urges.
It took a moment for the people to file out. And then it was just them.
Mira turned, looked Rumi right in the eyes. Her gaze was piercing, but her voice was gentle. “Does it bother you, Rumi?”
“Does it not bother you?” Rumi let out a dry laugh. The proposal was so outlandish to begin with. And then there was the whole gay thing. Rumi wasn’t gay. Mira was. Was it, like, problematic of her to pretend to date Mira, being a straight woman? Shouldn’t Mira be bothered? To be used like this for their company’s agenda?
Mira grabbed her hand and Rumi was taken aback by the sudden contact. Warm. The shimmering patterns on Rumi’s hand glowed a faint pink.
“Listen Rumi,” Mira’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want to do anything that will put you in an uncomfortable position. You’re too…important to me. I would do anything–and everything–you ask of me.” She paused, casting her gaze downward. “If you don’t want this, all you have to do is say the word.”
There was something terrifying about Mira’s statement. Not in the words but in the weight with which they were said. It felt more meaningful than her usual monologues on emotion and boundaries. It felt like an admission. “But does fake dating bother me? No.” Mira chuckled, an air of sarcasm detectable. “Seriously, Rums, you’re one of the few people in the whole world I would ever do this with. And I’m–I’m honestly a little worried about the alternatives I’m sure they have in store for us if we don’t agree.” The pink-haired girl trailed off, lost in thought.
Zoey, throughout the exchange, hadn’t moved a centimeter. She was staring vacantly out the window, eyes tracing the silhouette of the skyscrapers in the distance.
“Zo?” Rumi asked. “What do you think?”
Zoey shrugged. “Why does it matter what I think? It’s your guys’ lives, not mine.”
Rumi was stunned by the coolness in Zoey’s voice, which was usually so full of energy and passion. Maybe the awful, cold aesthetics of the company building were rubbing off on her. Or the air conditioning. Rumi noticed that Zoey was shaking, trembling slightly. The poor girl really needed a sweatshirt.
Mira frowned. “You’re important to us, Zoey. You're our best friend and our literal other band member, not some third wheel. Obviously we care what you think about this.”
Zoey let out an exhale and curled into herself, presumably for warmth. “It’s up to you Rumi. I’ll be fine with whatever. I guess–I guess it would be worse if they took us away from each other.”
That last sentence struck Rumi right in her heart. Her mind was made up. The company would never take her girls from her. She would date Mira.
Fake date.
Right, fake date. It was the only way to ensure that she would get to stay with her girls. And she would do anything for her girls. Even if it meant staged dates, or hand holding, or whispered sweet nothings in Mira’s raspy, sensual voice.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Are we going to have to kiss?!
…
The plan was this: There would be a date, on the 25th of July, to a sushi restaurant whose prices even Rumi–a multi-multi-millionaire–couldn’t justify to herself, discretely photographed and leaked by two Huntr/x employees. Two days later, a variety show, with lots of lingering touches and suggestive stares between Mira and Rumi. Sometime in the first week of August, there would be paparazzi and a kiss, the mere thought of which made Rumi want to crawl into a hole in the ground and never come out. They would quiet down a bit, after that, and reinforce the reality of the relationship with some cute selfies and instagram captions.
By the time October rolled around, they would be broken up.
Only two months.
Two months.
Two whole months of pretending to be in love with Mira.
The added torture to this whole plan was that Celine had been the one to dictate it, voice devoid of any emotion whatsoever as she explained the timeline. Rumi would have been happier if she had heard glee in Celine’s voice, sadness, rage, or anything except the vacancy she was met with. It was so small, Rumi thought it might have been a hallucination, but she could have sworn she heard a tremor in Celine’s cadence. A stumble. Just once.
Rumi felt somewhat guilty about how she responded to the girls after the conversation with the company. When they returned to the Huntr/x penthouse, she excused herself immediately, locked herself in her room, and attempted to disassociate from reality while nested in a heap of blankets, stuffed animals, and comforter.
They didn’t check on her for the first couple hours. Both Zoey and Mira were processing too, Rumi suspected.
By dinnertime, Mira was knocking on Rumi’s door, threatening to bust it down if she didn’t receive proof of life.
“Just, give me space,” Rumi said, choking back tears. She was worried that the sight of Mira’s face would send her into a renewed frenzy. Never had she asked for space from Mira or Zoey since she revealed her patterns. It felt like reverting back to old habits.
Mira acquiesced to her plea, at least for a little while. It felt empty. One of Zoey’s stuffed animals had been abandoned on her bed from an earlier cuddle session, while one of Mira’s sweatshirts was crumpled up on her pillow. In the evidence of their existence, of their current absence, Rumi was overcome with loneliness. It was difficult to face them under the circumstances, Rumi decided, but impossible to stand being apart from them.
By the time she emerged from her cocoon of blankets and misery, padding down the hallway to Huntr/x’s living room, she found Zoey and Mira curled up on the couch, sound asleep. Soft snores shook Mira’s frame, and Zoey was clinging to her from behind like a koala bear. The scene was adorable, and Rumi took out her phone to memorialize it with a photo. New screensaver, she thought with a little smile. Rumi’s eyes caught on the dancer’s face. Mira looked entirely at peace. The sharp angles of her face were softened with sleep, and her eyelashes fluttered every so often.
Rumi sat down on the edge of the couch and brushed back a piece of pink hair. Mira’s roots were slightly darker, indicating that it was about time for a touchup dye job. Sometimes Rumi forgot that Mira’s hair wasn’t really pink–partially because Mira stayed very on top of her root coverup and partially because, despite the unnatural hue, it looked so good on her. It was a loud color, an undeniable one, and it fit Mira perfectly.
Rumi had admittedly been scared of Mira when they first met. Well, maybe not scared, but certainly intimidated. Celine had ushered Mira into a rehearsal room at the company training compound–all bright fluorescents and mirrored walls that could expose even the tiniest flaw in her choreography. Rumi looked up from her stretches and felt her heart jump to her throat. She had resisted the urge to gape and shudder under the intense gaze of a tall, pretty girl who was inspecting every inch of the space–and Rumi herself–with all-seeing, narrowed eyes. It was laughable now, given what she now knew about the pink-haired girl’s exceedingly compassionate, often gentle character. However, Mira had this ability of seeming untouchable. Infallible.
And so pretty.
The thought brought Rumi back to her senses. It was a thought that popped into her mind daily. Mira was pretty. So pretty. Just looking at her would astonish Rumi. However, Rumi couldn’t resist the tug in her gut today. So pretty, and she’s mine.
For the next two months.
And not for real, obviously.
Rumi wedged her way onto the couch, feeling some combination of Zoey’s and Mira’s arms mindlessly pull her into their embrace. There would be plenty of time to have an existential crisis about a PR relationship with Mira. Tonight, though, she would let herself relax.
…
“What are you wearing?”
“Huh?”
“For our date tonight. What are you wearing?”
The three Huntr/x members were at an outfit fitting for an awards show a couple months out. Zoey, Mira, and Rumi were standing in a line, legs shoulder width apart and arms spread to the sides as a troupe of women measured every inch of their bodies. Zoey was chattering away with the two stylists at her feet, a soft babble combining with the whirring fan to create a blanket of noise.
Rumi craned her neck to look at Mira, but one of the stylists measuring her guided her head back to a forward position, glaring.
“Aren’t I supposed to surprise you?”
Mira hummed. “I just wanted to check the vibe.”
“You’re the one planning the date!” Rumi said, incredulous. “I should be asking you about the vibe.”
Mira had been cagey about the details of their first public appearance. The PR team had planned on taking care of all the details, yet Mira had been strongly against this. She wanted to be involved. For realism purposes, was Mira’s purported claim.
“It’s better if you can’t hyperanalyze it before it happens,” Mira had told her, as well. “And, I want to make it something fun for us. I would never take you–any girl, I mean–on a bad date.” This was perhaps closest to the real truth. Mira’s pride was on the line, and Rumi had been unable to hide her nerves about the whole situation. After swerving Mira for the second day in a row, she had pulled Rumi aside for a pep talk. Rumi remembered very little of what said pep talk entailed, since she had been too focused on not staring at the other girl’s glossy, perfectly pouted lips as she spoke. The internet theories had fully, undeniably ruined her.
The woman measuring Rumi patted her twice on the back, indicating that she was now free to move. Rumi thanked her before whirling around to face Mira.
“I was planning on coordinating outfits,” the dancer smirked. “But sure, surprise me. We’re both hot enough to look good together regardless.”
Rumi felt a deep flush form on her face at the implication. It was indirect, sure, but Rumi was pretty sure Mira had just called her hot. And then there was the second part of the sentence, which Rumi didn’t fully want to dwell on. We’d look good together. She could visualize it in her mind’s eye: Mira’s hand curled possessively around her waist, shooting a sly smile toward the paparazzi while Rumi gazed up at the smooth slope of her jawl–
Again, girl, you need to stop with this.
“All done!” Zoey exclaimed, clapping her hands together and shaking Rumi from her reverie.
Like Rumi, Zoey had been withdrawn the past several days, holing up in her room and fiddling around on her instruments or, more commonly, disappearing to the studio for hours on end. She was constantly scribbling in her notebooks, tucking pages of fragmented lyrics close to her chest. Rumi, noticing the younger member’s sudden artistic inspiration, had offered to join her in the studio to record some demos, but Zoey had only startled, slammed her notebook shut, and run to the bathroom.
In the past twelve hours, though, her cheeriness had returned with vigor, assuaging Rumi’s concerns.
Zoey went–skipped, practically–up to Rumi and Mira. “Let’s go home and watch a documentary, yeah?”
Mira shot a fond look at Zoey, starting to nod before stopping herself. “Ah, wait. Rumi and I have to get ready for our date.”
“Oh.” The maknae’s face crumpled, but the somber expression was quickly replaced by a toothy smile. “Forgot about that. It’s alright, I wanted to go to the studio anyway.”
“Again?” Rumi asked.
Zoey made a face. “Well, yeah. I’ve needed something to do while you two are busy making goo-goo eyes at each other. Plus, I’m working on something.”
Rumi cringed at Zoey’s teasing. Mira and I are not making goo-goo eyes, give me a break. When Zoey wasn’t writing maniacally or brooding in her room, she was poking fun at Rumi and Mira’s romantic entanglement, and it was becoming a bit tiring.
“Zoey,” she started, “we’re not actuall–”
“You’re working on something?” Mira interrupted. “You haven’t mentioned it.”
The three girls began walking toward the door, and Rumi spotted a familiar black SUV waiting for them. The sun was scorching, and she had to shield her eyes when they stepped out into the light.
Zoey bobbed her head to the side and started fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “I mean, yeah…I’m working on something.”
Mira opened the car door and ushered the other two girls inside. As Rumi stepped across the threshold of the car, she felt Mira’s hand steadying her, a solid presence pressing against the small of her back. She felt her pulse start to race.
Rumi really needed to get a grip, didn’t she?
Rumi was tired of every interaction with Mira feeling like a war against her physiological responses. Until the #GayRumi phenomenon, she had never been quite so easily…turned on?
Nope! Wrong expression. Turned on? That wasn’t right. Definitely not right.
Rumi settled into her seat, choosing to focus only on Zoey. How am I going to survive this date?
Mira’s voice rang out from behind her. “Why haven’t you shown us yet? I can’t wait to hear it.”
Zoey’s eyes darted between Rumi and Mira. She opened her mouth for a moment, hesitating. The car pulled away from the curb. “Well, it’s actually…It’s not for Huntr/x.”
Rumi’s eyes bulged out of her head. Zoey always wrote for Huntr/x. At the very beginning of their career, the company had bought songs for them, electing to shelf Zoey’s work for when they were “more established artists” and had “more cushion for creative liberty.” Rumi had always found this line of reasoning asinine; Zoey’s songs were far better than their debut work, and they gained much more traction after using her as their main producer and lyricist. As an outlet during that early stage, though, Zoey had ghostwritten a couple songs for other groups. All of them had gone viral. However, songwriting credits were rarely acknowledged, and Mira and Rumi noticed the toll it took when her work was accredited to other groups.
After that, Rumi had promised to fight for Huntr/x to write original music. It was better for the Honmoon, she told Celine, who had begrudgingly agreed and went to work convincing the executives. Mira, meanwhile, used her massive online following to shoutout Zoey whenever a song she wrote charted high. Since the board of their company gave into Celine’s demands, Zoey hadn’t written even one song for another group.
“You’re ghostwriting?” Rumi asked.
Zoey shook her head vehemently. “No! Of course not!” Then, she deflated, dopey smile fading fast. As if the truth was somehow worse. “I'm doing…um, a–collab. A solo feature.”
“A feature?” Mira’s voice encapsulated the shock Rumi felt. Huntr/x never did solo work or features. They were perfect together. The three of them. They didn’t need other artists for clout, and it was a tacitly recognized truth that there was no vocalist, rapper, songwriter, or producer that could offer anything that they couldn’t offer as a trio.
Rumi scowled, feeling heat rising in her cheeks. It was hard not to read Zoey’s actions as a betrayal of some kind. “The company gave you permission for that?”
“Yeah.” Zoey crossed her arms. “We’re allowed to do it in our contract, so don’t act all pissed, Rumi.”
“I’m not pissed!”
“You’re acting pissed. If you care so much, get your own feature.”
“Guys,” Mira interjected. “Chill. It sounds cool, Zoey.” The pink-haired girl stumbled over the word cool. She was trying to be supportive, but the way her eyebrows kissed her hairline told Rumi she was still stunned. “Can you tell us more about it?”
Zoey relaxed, just a bit. “It’s with Brendan da Silva. I wrote it, but I thought his voice and style would match it more than Huntr/x. We met at the Grammy’s red carpet a couple years ago, and he expressed interest in working together, so…it just kind of worked out. He wants to co-release it as a single.”
Brendan da Silva. Rumi ran through every shred of information she knew about the man.
“American?!” Mira recoiled.
“Don’t act so disgusted,” Zoey jabbed back. “I’m American!”
Rumi was familiar with the guy. He was a popular American singer–a good vocalist with a tendency for melodic rap sections in his music. He was part Brazilian, so his songs often had a bit of Latin influence, too. Rumi had met him once, at some American music show after party. He was perfectly complimentary–tried to greet her in Korean, which was sweet–and objectively very handsome, but Rumi didn’t have any particularly fond memories of the encounter. She hated American award shows. Her English was passable, upon Celine’s insistence, but thinking in another language was uncomfortable. The Americans spoke fast, and often Rumi found their lilt irritating. Zoey was the one exception. Rumi liked listening to her interview portions in English, letting herself disconnect from deciphering what Zoey was saying and focusing instead on the different, bright inflections the language lent to her.
“So is it a feature or a collaboration?” Rumi asked. “Because it seems a little bit like you’re going solo.” Rumi tried to pass the latter remark off as a joke. It fell very flat.
“No. I’m not going solo. But I do have a life outside of you two.” Zoey examined her nails. “I guess it’s more of a collaboration than a feature.”
“Well Rumi and I are very excited to hear whatever you end up making, Zo.” For once, Mira’s attempt at diffusion didn’t seem to dissolve any of the tension in the car.
…
Rumi’s hand trembled as she finished the wing of her eyeliner.
Don’t be nervous, it’s just Mira.
That was the crux of it, though. It was Mira. Rumi’s bandmate. One of Rumi’s first friends and favorite people. They had seen each other at their best and their worst but never in a romantic light. Like her patterns, it was like Rumi had to unveil another sensitive part of her existence to Mira. A lot was happening and very quickly.
Plus, Mira was sickeningly gorgeous, and try as she might to blame her racing heartrate and full-body shivers on the internet conspiracies, Rumi couldn’t help but begin to wonder if there was something else.
You’re going crazy, Rumi.
Three sharp raps on her bedroom door.
“Rumi, babes, we’ve gotta head out soon.” Mira’s voice was resonant and perhaps just slightly nervous.
Rumi looked herself up and down, tucking a few rebellious baby hairs into place. She had elected to only braid the top of her hair, letting the rest of it cascade down her back. Rumi almost always pulled her hair back but mostly for practical purposes. It would get in her way in the event of a spontaneous demon battle if it was left loose. In terms of clothing, she had gone for a satiny black backless dress with a deep slit. A part of herself, which Rumi was valiantly fighting, shuddered at the visibility of her patterns, which pricked and curled out along every inch of her. But there was also something entrancing about the contrast of it: shimmering white against the deep black. On full display, Rumi’s patterns almost looked…beautiful?
Rumi was never the kind of girl to show this much skin, for the obvious reasons and also a deeper value of modesty that might have just been inherent to her personality. Inexplicably, she wanted to impress Mira. Wanted to watch her eyes widen just the barest amount and her hands twitch when she laid eyes upon Rumi. Rumi wanted Mira to have trouble looking away.
But Mira was her best friend, and Rumi immediately felt guilty for thinking that way
It was only because Mira was so stunning herself, so her lingering gaze would be an enormous compliment. That was all.
Rumi took a steadying breath and stepped out of her room.
Mira was leaning against the wall of the hallway, scrolling on her phone. Her posture read casual upon first glance, but Rumi knew Mira–there was a bubbling, nervous energy simmering beneath the facade.
Oh she was so screwed. There was no denying it now–Mira was hot. No, hot was an understatement. Even Rumi, who was straight, could admit that Mira looked sexy as hell. Her silk blouse had only just enough buttons done to pass for appropriate, and Rumi felt her mouth dry. The smooth expanse of skin was littered with delicate silver necklaces and–God, Mira had really nice collarbones, didn’t she? There was something about the slope of her neck, the sharp curve of her jaw that made Rumi want to reach across the space between them and touch.
Rumi tore her gaze away from Mira. She was straight, after all. Super straight. The straightest girl ever. She wasn’t going to succumb to the internet speculation and gaslight herself into believing there could possibly be something more.
“O-oh!” Mira startled, fumbling with her phone. “Rumi…”
Straightness aside, Rumi felt a deep sense of satisfaction as Mira’s eyes raked over her, clearly having some kind of reaction. The other girl’s jaw twitched slightly, before softening into a smile. She stepped into Rumi’s space and placed her hands on Rumi’s waist.
Her presence was…intoxictating, somehow, and Rumi felt her knees weaken. They stood there like that for a moment–both, perhaps, a little stunned by the proximity. She’s holding me. Rumi couldn’t help but think that their pose was possessive, in a sense. Mira’s eyes widened and she removed one of her hands, choosing instead to rest it on the spot where a pattern twisted out, branchlike, from the strap of Rumi’s dress. At the contact, the marking pulsated bright pink light, illuminating Mira’s face and catching the glitter of her eyeshadow.
“You look really pretty,” Mira said, meeting Rumi’s stare. “You always do, but especially tonight.” Her voice was quiet. Zoey was down the hall in her own room, so there was no point in whispering, but Rumi savored the tenderness, like this was meant only for her to hear. No cameras, no spectacle, just the two of them.
We’re so close, and it’d be so easy to jus–
Rumi stepped away, abrupt, slipping out of Mira’s grasp. Mira, too, jumped back.
“You look great, too, Mir,” Rumi replied, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. It meant to ease the weight with a casual compliment, but her words felt too honest. Too real. She gestured vaguely toward the elevator. “Shall we go?”
Mira nodded, easy grin reforming as if nothing had happened. “After you, princess.”